The Journal of Sherlock Holmes
by Starthorn
Summary: Sherlock as a young boy in his school day. When a mysterious new student arrives at Sherlock's boarding school in London, and people start dropping off dead, Sherlock Holmes decides that he wants to know what is going on. But not all is as it seems...
1. Entries 1 to 3

******ＪＯＵＲＮＡＬ**

of

Sherlock Holmes

**Entry 1**  
>11 22:00  
>So here I am. Being stupid and wrong. I hate being stupid and wrong. I do not know why I am writing in this diary. I do not know why I am bothering. I don't like writing. It is stupid. But here I am anyway, so I might as well write. I hate to admit it, but I need someone to talk to. So my writing in here is stupid because I cannot talk to pieces of dead tree and skin from a dead cow. If you are reading this, you are probably stupid, so I will explain. Paper=pieces of dead tree. Leather Cover= skin from a dead cow. I will not explain why you are stupid. I cannot be bothered. To tell you the true, I am bored. I needed to borrow a microscope from one of the biology classrooms in school. Mycroft came to visit, and saw me with it. Confounded thing. Stupid brother. I had taken the school tag code off it earlier, but he still put two and two together. It's not like I took it off school property anyway. And now I'm here, locked in the caretaker's office, writing in this journal, being very stupid and wrong like everybody else. That is why I am writing, because I don't want to be like everybody else. I hate them. Every one of them. From Mycroft to the headmaster. From Ben Dobson's little sister to his oldest ancestor. I hate them all. I hate mankind. I hate that I am one of them. I hate it. I HATE IT ALL. I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I hate myself because right now I can't think of a stronger word than hate. Thank you for existing so that I can write this. I will not write in here again.<p>

**Entry 2**  
>51 19:00  
>That lasted a long time then. Here I am again. I felt slightly less- I can't really describe it- If I have nothing to do, nothing to- solve, workout- I cannot live with myself. My mind can't be doing nothing because then I begin to think about things. About problems that- never mind. But after I wrote in here last, I felt different. Like I had got something out of my system.I will not say how much I hate everything again. I have done that, so there is no point. Look, before I write anything else, this is for me. I do not believe that I am talking to some mystic soul. You are paper, card and leather, unwritten in before I wrote in you, owned by a man who was once rich, with great foresight and organisation, but then fell on hard times, taken over, probably by drink in his despair. He owned a small carnivorous mammal-<br>I called this piece of paper you.  
>Sherlock you are an idiot. Stop being an idiot. Stop writing things that you already know. Stop being an idiot.<p>

**Entry 3**  
>51 19:30  
>I have to write. Anything. I have to write or die. It is like an addiction. My life is worthless. I am worthless. Write Sherlock. Write. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am 14 years old. I live at Eastgate High private boarding school for boys in London. My parents are dead. My only known relative is my brother Mycroft Holmes. He is 21 years old. I hate him. I do not know if he hates me. I do not know him at all. My parents left no money. I got in on a scholarship. I do not Hate Maths, Biology, Physics, Chemistry or IT. I share a dormitory with Ben Dodson, Charles Wynne and Winston Muers. Ben is slow and stupid. He eats food, he sleeps. Winston does his homework for him. I watch. Charles is stupid. His parents are the 17th richest family in the UK. He is stuck up like his parents. When he joined, he asked to move out of my dormitory, because I only came in on a scholarship. He was moved, but was bullied in the dorm he was sent to, so came back. He is annoying, but doesn't tease me all of the time any more. I can live with him. Just. Winston is quiet and intelligent. He parents are rich, but he could have probably entered on a scholarship had he needed to. He is especially good at Maths. I do not do friends. None of these boys are my friend.<br>This morning, my alarm clock woke me up at 2:00. I got up and dressed. I used a magnet to unlock to door. Oh yes. That. I replaced our dormitory lock with a magnetic metal lock. It can still be locked and unlocked as normal, but also with a magnet. That is how I get out of my room in the morning. I go down to chemistry 4. The motion sensors do not cover the expanse of the route there, so as always, I arrived undetected. And so continued my experiment. Ms. Lockhart makes a call on our dorm at 7:00. By that time, I am back in bed. Those are the facts. Now I must right something funny. Maybe something about what one of my chums said to me last Saturday down at the boating lake. Lies.I have no 'chums'. If I went to the boating lake it would be by myself. I would be annoyed if anyone else came. I would be thinking. Now, my dearest diary, you realise how little you want to know about me after all. My life is a boring drone. Good day to you.  
>Note to self: Stop treating diary like a human. Idiot.<br>Note to self: New sensor to be fitted in corridor. North wing, Biology 1- Biology 3.  
>Note to self: Stop making notes to self.<br>Note to self: Shoot me now.


	2. Entry 4

**Entry 4**  
>61 13:30

Hello myself. I am sitting on a wall. Well, not quite on a wall... on a path next to a wall. Better explain- to myself? what I mean. Eastgate High is based around an old Norman fortress, with a great stone wall around to defend it from any Saxons who were not too keen on their new ruler. It has, or rather had, a sort of stone walk way around it, so that intruders could be seen over the top of the wall. Most of it's run down now, and people rarely visit what's left, especially in dreary weather like this. I come up here most days. It gives me somewhere to think, away from all the noise that everybody else makes. So, I am sitting here now, writing a pointless journal to myself, and eating a raisin and cinnamon bagel that I have not long since bought from the dining hall. I'm not so sure that I like cooked raisins though. The skin breaks under the heat, and the inside turns to mush. I'm eating it anyway, as I suppose it's the last thing I'll have to eat until dinner at seven. Not only is this place away from people, but it gives me a good view of the city. I can sit up hear and watch all of the tiny insignificant people rushing around and worrying about their tiny insignificant lives. I had art this morning, then maths, history and Chemistry. Not too bad a morning really. You should see Thursday. Drama, double English and then another hour of art. Given that each subject lasts an hour, double English is not much fun. Silly expression that. Not much fun. I don't think anything is 'much fun' to be honest. Art is a complete waste of time. Our teacher, Mr. Quigley is completely out of his mind. He has a 'Tibetan gong' that he hits with a size 20 paintbrush when he wants to get our attention. His classroom is a mess, as he forgets to make anybody tidy up. Ben spilt a whole tin of paint down his blazer a few weeks ago, and instead of giving him detention, Mr. Quigley hung up his blazer on the wall and gave him an A* for the most creative piece of artwork. It means we don't have to do much though. As long as you can explain how you have constructed and cried over the layout and fine tuning of your work, and write a page or two about all the depths of emotion that you forced into it with your skilled hand, you'll get a good mark. Even if it's just a splodge of paint. That drives me up the wall. I hate doing nothing, and making up complete lies. I swear that I'll write no more than a line next time, and see what he makes of it. "Sherlock my boy, this is an exemplary piece of artwork! The sheer simplicity... is beyond expression! Marvellous! Miraculous! Magnificent! I will give you a bang on my beautiful Tibetan gong as a reward!" Erh. I can almost hear him saying that.  
>There's a blue ford galaxy car coming up the drive way. It's probably Miss. Rushworth. She went on holiday to Majorca for a few weeks, and she has that type of car. And yes, that's her number plate; T56 's look like her style of driving too. If she's not careful, she's going to go-<br>Too late.  
>Into that thorn bush. I'm surprised she didn't get stuck. I'm not sure from up here, but I think there's someone else sitting in the back of the car. A child I think. Maybe a relative of her's, or a new boy starting at the school. It won't be a child of her's... she's not married and has never been pregnant as far as I know. And there was nothing on the registers about a new pupil... besides, it looks like a girl. A relative... she doesn't have any that I know of. Maybe an adopted child? A friend's child? Writing things down slows my brain. I should have worked this out by now. I have to find out who this new person is, or I will have nothing else to do with my life, and die of stupidity. Or perhaps I'll live, and end up hanging upside down for the rest of my life, trying to let nothingness drain out of my ears. And the bell will ring in...5,4,3,2,1<br>And yes it rung. I am not going to form. I am going to find this person. I am not going to write a good bye note as I am writing to myself and I am not going away from myself. I am writing to myself, not a diary. MYSELF.  
>Got that Sherlock?<p> 


	3. Entry 5

**Entry 5**  
>61 23:30  
>It was Miss. Rushworth. It was a girl. The girl's name is Madeline Forster. She has brown hair and has been around the world, or has at least according to her suitcase. She is a careful, intelligent person, but has very little or no money. She doesn't wear make-up, and has short, flaking nails. Miss. Rushworth probably picked her up somewhere along the west coast in Devon, which is strange because Miss. Rushworth was intending to disembark at Heathrow airport, which is certainly not in Devon. No, I am not showing off. Anyone with any powers of deduction will realise this. Now I will explain. For the sake of God knows who. If God exists. Which you cannot prove or disprove, because the whole concept is so utterly inexplicable. The car was parked outside the entrance building. I tore a page out of the back of this book, and wrote a fake letter from the headmaster. Yes. I know. Stupid. But I've had some good views of his writing in the past, so it wasn't exactly difficult to replicate. I gave it to the porter, and said it was from the headmaster for Miss. Rushworth. He is not very bright and hurried outside to give it to the woman who was unloading the baggage from the car. I couldn't see the second person, but among the luggage was a small battered suitcase, which she would never have taken. Mark you, she would have taken something battered, but is a biology teacher, and does not like old things. She read the note and hurried inside. I assumed the girl had already gone in, so I waited until Miss. Rushworth had gone into the building, and then went to inspect the case. It was a tatty leather thing, covered in stickers from around the world. I could see Paris, New York, and Sydney, almost lost under the layers of many others. The name was not that was a thin slip of paper tied to the handle, and on it was written 'Madeline Forster' in a swooping elaborate hand. I recognized the old way of writing the e and the f, and assumed that it wasn't the child's hand writing. Some strands of brown hair, about 30cm long had been caught in the metal clasp. This also did not take much brain the case was dented and scratched, all of it's injures were dark and worn, indicating that this had belonged to someone before her. On closer inspection, I realised that there were no new ones, which seemed incredible as it had clearly been much used. So, she must careful of her belongings. This also suggested that she did not own much, and as she had not bought a new one, unless it had some sentimental value, indicated that she had little money. Intelligent? There was a unique iron lock on the case, with what looked like a sort of code. Rather like a Chinese puzzle lock, but home made almost. I examined it closely, but couldn't work out what you were supposed to do with it. Which is not very like me. I suddenly realised that I had been standing in the open for almost 10 minutes, and Miss. Rushworth, however clumsy she was, would realise that the letter was a fake.<br>I shot into the thick mesh of bushes at the side of the road, and took the long route back to my dorm, in case someone was following me. No, I am not paranoid. Just cautious.  
>So I sat on the floor in the bathroom with my violin, and played and thought and played and thought. Playing does not help me think. I can think on my own thank you very much. It allows me to organise my thoughts in my head, and sort them into to an order that makes sense. I can associate each one with a note or cord, and can find them again. Almost an hour had past, when Winston came back from the final lesson, to get changed out of his uniform. He accidently opened the door on me, which I had forgotten to lock. It was a slightly awkward moment. I stopped playing, and stared at him. The room is sound proofed by the way. That's why he couldn't hear me.<br>"Oh- Sorry Sherlock-I-I didn't think..." he trailed off. Talking is certainly not his forte. I picked up my violin case, and stood up.  
>"Don't worry. I forgot to lock the door." I walked out of the room, wondering why one earth I'd told him that I hadn't locked the door, as it was quite obvious that I hadn't. To Winston as well. It's not as if he's an idiot like most people.<br>I heard the resounding click of the lock behind me, and sat down on my bed, staring out of the window. The sky was dark and dead, coated with thick grey clouds. I looked as though it was about to rain. And then it did. Heavy bullets of water hit hard against the window, echoing through out the room. Maybe I should be a weather forecaster. I would certainly do a better job than some of those buffoons. I hoped that the case wasn't still outside. It would wash that mud off it. I started kicking the wall. Kicking the wall is a very beneficial pass time if you cannot play a violin. Thud thud thud. That plaster on the piece that I was kicking is now beginning to fleck away as I write this by torchlight. If I don't stop this habit soon, Ms. Lockhart will notice something. I am going to go to sleep now. Goodnight book myself.


	4. Entry 6

**Entry 6**  
>71 05:00  
>Mycroft is coming today. If I had bad days, then the days that he comes to visit would be bad days. They give you lessons off, 'so that you can spend more time with your families' and also so that Mycroft can kill me. Not really kill me. You know what I mean. Of course I know what I mean. This is stupid. I am stupid. The only problem is, my older brother is not. You won't believe how many times I've tried to avoid seeing him. Yes I will, because it's me that's been avoiding him- This is starting to become even more stupid. Oh, how I hate myself.<br>Today, I resort to desperate measures. I am going to hide. In a rather obvious place. But that's the beauty of it. I don't think he'll look for me somewhere like that. But Mycroft is very unpredictable and unreadable.  
>I'd received a letter a few days before, telling me that he was coming, here:<p>

Sherlock,

I'm coming the seventh of February at 8 O'clock. Meet me in the East Wing reception area. If you're not there, I'll have you put into detention for a week.

Mycroft.

Short, and to the point. Fail to turn up, and you can't go out into the labs at night, because you'll be locked in the detention block, where they have no magnetic door locks fitted. I will have to do something about this at some point. And the thing is, Mycroft really can do all of this to me. He was here before me, and apparently, all of the teachers loved him. He was the ideal. The role model student. It's always 'Why can't you be like your brother Sherlock?' 'Mycroft was the most talented pupil that I've ever had. It's a terrible shame that you don't take after him.' Why can't they just leave it? I DON'T WANT TO BE LIKE MY BROTHER. I DON'T WANT TO BE LIKE ANY STUPID HUMAN ON THIS GODFORSAKEN PLANET.  
>Mycroft: Junior prefect, Monitor, Prefect, Senior prefect, head boy. School council 6 years running. Mummy's ickle babykins. Daddy's perfect son.<br>Sherlock: Worthless idiot.  
>He came here, fully paid for by my parents, all rights, luxuries and holidays included. Then they decided to get themselves killed. 'I know! Let's leave Mycroft to become the great person that he was always going to be, and let's leave Sherlock to rot.' I only got in here because Mycroft made me. I hate Mycroft. I don't want to be here. I want to run away from everyone and everything and build a rocket and die in space. No-one would ever find my body. No-one would even care. And that's how I want it. I want to be on my own. I don't need anything, or anyone. I don't have to live with something that I hate.<p>

I left by my usual route. Winston was awake when I left. He knows how I get out. There have often been mornings when he's watched me leave, but with every passing week, it has been more and more frequent. He clearly hasn't slept. Bags under his eyes, he's slower that usual. He even dropped 3 marks in our last Physics test. He's never done that before. His hair is unwashed, his cloths creased and dirty. Sometimes when I go to bed, He is just sitting there on his own bed opposite me, staring out of the window. His eyes red from crying. His father is in the army. My initial thought was that his father was missing. This has happened several times before, but he's never been apparently distressed for more than a a day or two. It's been almost a week now. I'm going to check his post tomorrow morning. Maybe I'll find an answer there. It was easy enough to climb out of the common room window. There is a line of dormitory window ledges, and a handy chestnut tree at the corner of the building. The curtains of the rooms are always shut this early in the morning, so it is not particularly difficult to work my way along the ledge. The foliage of trees, too spindly to climb down, yet bushy enough to provide cover, offer perfect protection, especially on a cloudless night. They would also break my fall. I'm fifteen metres up; third floor.I was soon on the ground, and in the leafy cover of the bushes. The temperature was around -5 degrees, but my trench coat, though rather worn, is of good quality and saw to that. I shifted my back pack across my shoulders. The heavy coil of rope was digging in uncomfortably. I crept around the building, bent low behind the bushes, my side pressed hard against the cold stone wall, counting the windows above me. I occurred to me again that this was a very stupid idea. I glanced upwards. I could see the light on in the bathrooms. It doesn't have blinds, and the cleaners come in about this time. I checked my digital watch. The numbers flashed in the darkness. 3:45. This was the time that they took their break. All I had to do was to wait for one of them to open the window. They always do this before they leave. They're not allowed the heating on, and so they use any night time breeze to dry it. The latch clacked above me, followed by footsteps, and the crashing of the bathroom door as it shut. I waited. It takes two minutes for the motion sensor to turn out the lights. I stood there, back against the wall, watching the square of light that the open window cast through the trees. Any second now...  
>A twig snapped somewhere behind me. I froze, then spun round. The ridiculous fear that it was Mycroft coursed through my veins. But too late. The light flickered off. I could here footsteps, fading into the distance. If it hadn't been for the faint crackling of the bracken beneath their feet, I would not have known that they had been there at all. Even Mycroft could not thread that lightly. It had to be someone small, slight. None of the boys could have managed it. That was when it hit me. Madeline Forster. The girl that Miss. Rushworth brought back. If someone had broken onto the school property, which is very unlikely as it is, I would have known. It had to be her. Fighting the instinctive urge to trace her,I turned my thought back to the task at hand. I retrieved the rope from my bag, and made sure that the rope was secured to the metal hook that I had made from twisted tin cans. Weak by themselves, but together, as strong as I needed them to be. I'd used eiderdown from the inside of my blanket so that it didn't clash against the wall if I missed. I needn't have worried. My aim was true, and the hook and rope flew through the open window, and bounced soundlessly on the floor at the other side. I pulled the rope next to me, testing it's strength. Hoisting my rucksack on again, I began to climb. I pulled my self in through the second floor window, and pulled the rope up after me. The bathroom would now be automatically locked from the outside until 9:30. All I had to do was hide the rope in the storage cupboard. The only people that checked in there were the cleaners, and they had finished for the night. This was the only safe hiding place in the room. All I had to do was tell Mycroft that I needed the toilet. I'd done this before, and run off out of the building. When he found me later, I told him that I'd been going to the toilets in the gallery building. He of course, didn't believe me, and now always makes sure that I use the one that I'm in now. The toilets above the East wing reception area. This shouldn't be a problem today. And now all I do Is wait. I made Winston promise that he'd come and unlock the door. And he's pulling the rope back in for me, and re hiding it. Cheating really, but it doesn't matter. He can't come down until half six, so I've got a, or rather had a bit of a wait.I can hear him coming down the passageway now.<p> 


	5. Entry 7

**Entry 7**  
>71 22:00  
>It didn't work. I don't think there is really another way of putting it. Winston came and let me out of the toilets. Reliable and silent as always. He looks exhausted, and his cloths were ironed into wonky folds and creases, which makes it obvious that he has slept in them again. He was doing up his tie when he came in. I pointed to the cupboard where I had hidden the rope. He simply nodded, and we left together. I wandered towards the main staircase in our dormitory block, and headed downstairs. I considered finding some breakfast, but wasn't really hungry. We plodded down the wide carpeted staircase, as I ran my hand along the polished banister. If you hadn't spent what felt like a life time in this building, you might think it posh, decorative. And you wouldn't be far wrong. If you could smell wealth, this place would reek. But that's a ridiculous notion. You can't even always see it. We parted in the entrance hall, Winston heading towards the breakfast room, and me finding the least comfortable chair to wait for Mycroft. I needed one hard enough to keep me awake. Late nights don't usually bother me, but I haven't slept properly since I started writing this journal. Which is stupid.<br>And so my brother arrived, as the second hand struck the twelve: 9 O'clock. He stepped through the door, coat flying out behind him. He is never late, and the radio controlled clock above the reception desk had just decided to prove this. Again. He strode over to me, and I scrutinised him closely, but he was, as ever, unreadable. I scuffed my leather school shoes against the carpet, and averted my gaze to the floor. I had to. Look at Mycroft's eyes, and he'll see right through me. I hate him for it.  
>"Good morning Sherlock." his voice was bland and cold, as he stood towering above me. Mycroft, the complex, dominating ice berg. Nothing on the inside, just his cold , hard exterior. He doesn't really care about me. He never has. He's just doing it because he feels that it his duty to our parents. He feels no duty to anyone else. Only himself. I was about to ask if I could go to the toilet, when I stopped myself. I had to play it slow, or he would work it out straight away.<br>"Hullo." I replied instead, audibly, but without taking my eyes off the carpet.  
>"Well? Are you coming?" he asked, his crisp voice cutting through the air between us. I stood without a sound, and began to make my way towards the corridor that led to the family meeting rooms. But before I could walk more than a few steps, I felt his firm hand grasp my shoulder. He doesn't look it, but he's strong when he wants to be.<br>"We're not going there today." his voice was cold, and that's by Antarctica standards. He walked back towards the entrance. When I didn't follow, he turned to face me again, his eyebrows raised in a question.  
>"I- I need to go to the loo before-" I broke off, as he interrupted with<br>"The toilet Sherlock- The toilet"  
>"Yes- that's what I meant. I need to go... now-"<br>He gave a curt nod, but there was something uncannily familiar on his face. Suspicion.  
>I walked briskly back up the stairs, and broke into a run a soon as he was out of sight. Into the bathroom I flew, grabbing the rope and hook. I released the catch on the window, and attached the tin hook firmly over the ledge. Even if Winston didn't come and hide it again, it didn't matter who found it. Thoughts began to thunder through my mind. A whole day in the woodland area, down by the lakes. No school, no Mycroft. Freedom.<br>I climbed over the sinks, so that I was sitting on the window ledge. It was quite a long way down, but it didn't matter. Anyone can slide down the rope. Clutching it tightly between my shaking hands, I began to lower myself down. It turned out to be quite easy. Which of course I knew anyway. I done this is PE lessons many times before. I was soon on the ground, and making a dash for the trees. The curtains on this side of the building were still shut. No-one would see me. I ran for about 10 minutes. The grounds of the school are quite extensive; He'll never get me now. I came to one of my usual hiding places; a small hollow surrounded by tall oaks, and threw myself down in a bed of leaves. Free. It felt so good. And I know that feeling good is only a release of hormones in your body, a chemical reaction, but right then, I didn't care. There was no-one there. No-one I hate. Here, I was me. I shut my eyes, and drank in the warm scent of the fallen leaves. No-one I hate. If only I could stay here for ever. But that's silly. I never stay here long. I get bored. I have to have something to do. I wonder around the woodland, organising my mind. Walking helps. Plod plod plod plod. Steady beat, steady breathing, steady heart rate. I look up. The forest streches for miles around me. I must have walked a long way, because I've spanned every metre known to me, and yet I don't recognise where I am now. And someone else is here. I can hear them. The leaves crunching. I can smell them too. It's a sort of fresh, outside smell. Not a perfume, but a sort of- everything smell. Like they are the earth. I want to hit myself for thinking something so stupid, but for some reason I can't move. I am standing, rigid in a clearing that I don't know. I was not here ten seconds ago. I did not walk here.  
>Crash- something hits the back of my head. Pain- every inch of my body killing at once. Everything spins- but I am not turning my head. Someone is calling, shaking me. "Wake up- It hit you-the..."<br>My eyes snap open. I am in the hollow. A dream. Nothing but a dream. They is a oak branch lying next to me- as wide as my hand-span. And then the pain- my head. The moment of clarity bursts into a million spinning fragments.  
>And there is that smell. The earth smell- and someone kneeling next to me- a girl. In my confusion, I jump up, my muscles tense, writhing like a rapid hound- and then I am running, and the girl cries out. Something red is streaming in front of her.<br>"Wait!" she shouts, stumbling forwards-  
>But I keep running, running, running. I don't understand anything. There is nothing left.<br>"Sherlock!" a bodiless cry-  
>and I am running<br>"SHERLOCK!"  
>and I am running. I trip. I fall. Mycroft. Into his waiting arms-<br>"Sherlock..."  
>And then everything goes black.<p> 


	6. Entry 8

**Entry 8**  
>281  
>The first thing that I can remember is a blinding whiteness, searing into my ears. warmth. White linen sheets. Moonlight streaming in through the window of the hospital ward. My pupils contracted, attempting to cope with the sudden gleam of soft light. Mycroft was sitting at my bedside reading a book. It's funny though, because I can't remember the title. Everything was fuzzy.<br>I didn't move. My body felt sore, and yet relaxed. I shut my eyes again. Waking up was not on the agender. I felt Mycroft push against the covers as he put down his book and turned to look at me. Through the tiny slit between my eyelids, I could see his face above me. And he was smiling. Smiling down at me. Mycroft never smiles.  
>It wasn't a happy smile though. It was almost as if- he was concerned. As if, this is silly, but, as if he cared.<br>I groaned and turned over onto my side, world blurred by overcoming sleepiness, and my aching head.  
>"Awake then?" Mycroft asked, his strangely gentle voice drawing me safely back to the land of the living. It all began to come streaming back. My escape. Running to the wood, and my dream. And there was something else too, but I couldn't place it in my mind.<br>A nurse came hurrying over, her pale blue dress standing out against the clinical white. She reached a hand behind my back, and helped me up into a sitting position, rearranging my blankets. It felt strange sitting there in those hospital robes, a plastic band around my wrist. I leant back into the pillows, furrowing my brow and running a thin hand through my matted hair.  
>"What happened?" I managed to ask. "Why am I here?" My brother smiled again, and turned his chair so that he was facing me.<br>"You took quite a hammering in the woods." He began to explain; "You had been asleep for a while. Almost four hours according to-"  
>"According to who?" I demanded, almost draining my energy at this sudden burst of interest. The same Nurse was instantly at my side, fussing over my blankets, and mumbling her annoyance at Mycroft under her breath.<br>"He has undergone a lot of stress Mr. Holmes", she appealed to my brother, "What he really needs is rest."  
>"He deserves to know what happened, thank you." he replied, dislike clear in every syllable. And no-one argues with Mycroft.<br>I felt a sudden wave of gratitude towards my brother. It was strange, but I was as though a great change had come over him.  
>I wanted him to continue, but I was almost to weak to say anything. As the nurse walked away again, I turned to him, willing him to keep talking.<br>"The child Miss. Rushworth bought back from Devon- Her name's Madeline Forster. But of course you already know that."  
>"Devon." I mumbled in reply, my voice breaking under the strain of talking. "I knew it was somewhere south along the west coast."<br>My brother snorted gently.  
>"The lower down the country you travel the paler the sand. The sand in that mud on the suitcase is particular to the sediment in most of Devon."<br>Suitcase. CCTV cameras. He must have spoken to the porter when I ran off.  
>Madeline Forster.<br>"Why- how?" I begged, my mouth dry.  
>"She was up in one of the trees when you walked into the hollow. She saw you go to sleep and then left. When she came back four hours later,and you were still there. She said you were shouting, and thrashing about in the leaves. The tree opposite the one she had been in was dead."<br>"Yes- I know." I muttered. Of course. The dead branch. It must have broken off and hit me on the back of my head.  
>"If I hadn't heard her shouting, you would never have been a lot worse off than you are now."<br>Worse off? I was only hit by a tree branch!  
>Surely?<br>"How- how long- have I been unconscious?"  
>"Three weeks Sherlock. Three weeks."<p>

.

I sat there, staring at him, my whole self engulfed in disbelief. Three weeks?  
>"Post Viral Fatigue." his tone was focused, to the point, and yet its familiarly was somehow comforting."You have been very ill Sherlock. Even before you were knocked unconscious. Thrashing, shouting in your sleep. Waking and sleeping habits irregular. Over working yourself. Usually people cope with this, but there is something else as well."<br>Was I dying?  
>He smiled gently, and seemingly guessing my thoughts, continued.<br>"You are not going to die Sherlock, but unless we work out what is wrong with you it can only get worse."  
>"You- you don't know?"<br>He only shook his head, features grave.  
>"And I fear that this is something that you alone can solve. You can't stay in your own little bubble forever Sherlock. You are living in a real world you know, with real people, and real problems. One day it is going to get to you."<br>He reached behind himself a pulled his coat off the back of the chair, and then pulled it over his shoulders. With a nod to the nurse, who seemed to have assigned herself to looking after me, he walked briskly across the ward towards the door. Just before he left, he turned to face me.  
>"And you owe an apology to Madeline Forster. You gave her a bloody nose." and with that he left.<br>Left me the kill myself in my mind over and over and over again.  
>He left me alone.<p> 


	7. Entry 9

**Entry 9**  
>291  
>The other boys in my dorm came to visit me in hospital. The monotonous drone of the ward was beginning to get on my nerves, so even they were a welcome break. Ben's sister had made be a 'Get well soon' card with a big pink heart on the front. His sister is only five, but already shows signs of becoming just as big an idiot as her brother is. I've only met her face to face once, at an open evening two months ago. She has the same porky features as her brother, and likes Barbie dolls and colouring with crayons. She also had a pet kitten, tabby if I remember correctly. Charles clearly didn't want to be there, which was fine of course- I didn't want him there either. He stood a metre from the bed, straightening his collar and looking snobbish and superior. He's not very tall though, and one of the nurses (a 24 year old named Natalie, as it happens), accidently tripped over the bag he was holding, so he was sent out for 'disrespecting hospital safety rules'. If Winston hadn't been so tired himself he might have been some comfort, but the fact that he looked like he was about to drop dead really did not help, as I felt almost exactly like that myself. He bought my violin in its case, and I was glad to see it, but felt so weak that I could barely lift the saw. They didn't stay that long because the visiting hours ended with about half an hour after their arrival. Before they left, I wanted to ask if they could bring this journal, but, well, it's stupid. I didn't want to ask them, because I was-<br>Alright, I was embarrassed. I didn't want them to know that I kept a journal, even if I was only writing to myself. I felt completely worn out when they left. I'd had an adrenalin rush, and had said and moved about too much. It was something of a relief to lie back down on the pillows again. Not that I'd got out of bed anyway, they wouldn't let me. Now I am grateful for that. It didn't take long for me to fall asleep again. But it wasn't a normal sleep. It was empty, dreamless.  
>I woke again, sore all over, my heart hammering in my chest and cold sweat running down my back. I sat bolt upright, keeled over and was promptly sick onto the clinically sterile floor. Not so clean any more.<br>I was dazed, people running around, cleaning me up. It was terrifying. And that sounds silly, but it was. It was like I had been suddenly woken up from a dream, a dream where I had been running for my life. But I couldn't remember anything. I groaned, attempting to block out the clamour around me. And then I saw you this journal on my bedside cabinet. Just sitting there. And I felt dizzy. And everything span.  
>And then I blacked out again.<br>Damn it.

.

When I came to, Mycroft was at my bedside again. He turned, and saw that I was awake.  
>"Only two hours Sherlock. Getting better."<br>Before I could say anything, barely move a muscle, he was gone. Out of the door. I slumped backwards, and glanced up at the clock. 2:02. Visiting time starts at two. I vaguely wondered if anyone had come to see me again. It seemed unlikely.  
>Natalie (that nurse) smiled and walked over to me, two people in tow. I squinted at them, but everything was fuzzy.<br>"Some friends to see you Sherlock." She simpered. Natalie is beginning to annoy me intensely.  
>I felt a shift in the mattress as someone sat down at the end of the bed.<br>"How are you?"  
>Miss. Rushworth's voice. But her? A friend? I can't remember having seen it like that before. What on earth was she here for? And who was this other person? I peered towards the shorter person standing behind her. As the world began to focus, I made out her form. They was small and slight, with a mess of short brown hair. She stood there, staring vigilantly at the ground, face white as a sheet. Madeline Forster. It had to be. But why were they here? I strained my eyes, looking for some clue as to who this girl was. But everything was confused, and my head was killing like nothing on earth.<br>"Sherlock?" Miss. Rushworth's voice. "Are you okay?"  
>I could feel the blackness creeping in at the edges. Not again. I gripped the side of the bed, attempting in vain make it stop. This seemed to register, and she pushed on my shoulders so that I was lying down again.<br>"Let the blood run to your head." She said gently. "You'll feel better then." Which of course I knew, but resisted. I hated people pushing me around, telling me what to do, even when I know it's for my own good.  
>"Honestly Sherlock," she persisted. "I had medical training before I went into teaching. I know what I'm doing." I gave in, and fell backwards so that I was lying down again. If I hadn't had to shut my eyes, I would have been glaring at her. In the darkness, I began to think. What were they doing here? She was one of my teachers, but it was not as if we knew each other well. The girl. What was she doing her? And medical training? Miss. Rushwoth never had any medical training that I was aware of. I screwed my eyes tighter, searching through the school files in my head. No. It said that she graduated from Oxford University with a first in Biology, and was given work at the school under special charges. 'Special Charges'?<br>I felt something move at the end of the bed, and heard light, hurried footsteps as someone left the ward. Miss. Rushworth was muttering under her breath, and I could tell by the air that was thrown in my face that she was moving, waving her arms. Beckoning someone? Madeline Forster who was leaving the ward. I opened my eyes, to have all my thoughts confirmed. I was just in time to see the girl again as she almost ran out of the room. Her face was even whiter than before. She looked positively terrified, but there was something else there too. Something like... determination.  
>I turned my head towards Miss. Rushworth again, eyebrows raised in a question. For a second, I was certain that I saw something like anger in her eyes, but it vanished as soon as she saw me looking at her. I had never seen that expression on her face before.<br>Something was definitely out of place.  
>"I didn't know you had medical training." I said. I attempted to make it sound like a statement, an offhand comment, but even talking was a challenge as pain hammered hard on the inside of my head.<br>"Oh." She smiled at me. That was not the reaction I had expected. "It's routine." She continued. "All teachers employed at a school must have a certain amount of first aid training. Just standard procedure."  
>That was true, but only in state schools. We both live at a private one, where there are fully trained school doctors and nurses.<br>"I thought that was only in state schools." I was making a demand now. Even she seemed to realise that.  
>"It's a thing that the government bought in recently I think." She paused, and then continued hurriedly, a shadow of a doubt visibly passing across her face. "Sherlock, why are you asking me this?"<br>"I was just interested. I like to know what's going on." This was actually partly true, but too much information confuses me. I struggle to find the separate, the important pieces of data when they are lost in everything else.  
>She regained her composure quickly, and her characteristic smile returned to her face. It is becoming quite permanent now. If I shuddered at things, I would be shuddering at this. She opened her mouth, as if to speak. I needed to think, and although I hated to admit it, sleep.<br>"I'm very sorry about Madeline. I… she's very shy… and really doesn't like meeting new people." She said. I grunted in reply. My head was hurting. I think she may have said something slightly different to that, but I was taking very little in.  
>"That book, on your bedside…" she continued, indicating this journal. I was instantly alert, but stayed exactly where I was. She was only making conversation. She didn't need to know that it was nothing other than an old novel.<br>"…Is it you yours?"  
>"Yes."<br>"What is it?" Although her tone was light, casual, there was an edge in her voice that I didn't like.  
>"It's an old copy of Nicholas Nickleby. Mycroft gave it to me when he came."<br>And Mycroft had given it to me. Second hand he had said. He told me that keeping a journal of my thoughts might 'help'. Help with what I ask you? A lie wound up in a truth is always more plausible.  
>"Mycroft? Your brother?"<br>How did she know that?  
>"Yes."<br>"Oh… Please may I have a look? "  
>"No."<br>A long pause.  
>"Urm, I'm sorry. It… just looked like something that I'd seen before." She muttered.<br>They were a few more moments of silence, but I did not allow myself to fall asleep, even though I was completely exhausted. Madeline did not come back. After about ten minutes, a nurse came over and sent Miss. Rushworth away.  
>And then I remembered the journal.<br>I asked the nurse whether anyone else had been to see me today, when I was asleep, or unconscious. She replied in the negative, and I was left alone to that mystery. Maybe Miss. Rushworth had been telling the truth. But she is a stupid human, who lies. The girl, the diary, the medical training. I'm ill. Why am I ill? So now I'm sitting in this stupid bed in this godforsaken hospital. I am writing a pointless journal for a pointless person. Me. And yet I keep on living, and thinking and breathing. And I don't know why. I want answers, but answer don't come on their own. Which is a good thing. This is not however a good thing when you are doomed to a bed for the rest of your life.


End file.
